My Fair Princess (29 page)

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave a haughty little sniff. “I wouldn't be forced to resort to such tactics if you would listen to me. But since your staff—and the runner— are apparently incapable of doing the job, it appears I must do it myself.”

“They're entirely capable. And may I remind you that it's my job to take care of problems like this, not yours.”

“You're not doing a very good job of it either, Leverton. I simply refuse to sit by and allow those thieves to make off with something that means so very much to me
and
to my mother.”

“And I refuse to allow my future bride to make a spectacle of herself.” As soon as the words escaped his lips, Charles knew he'd made a colossal blunder. Still, he couldn't back down. He could not allow Gillian to risk both her reputation and her life.

She met him toe-to-toe, her slender figure practically vibrating with outrage. “That's what this is really about—your blasted ducal pride. Let me tell you something,
Your Grace.
” She made the honorific sound like the worst sort of insult. “If you don't want a wife prone to making a spectacle of herself, you shouldn't be marrying me.”

“You do have control over your actions, Gillian. You can choose to behave in a more circumspect manner, or allow others to act on your behalf.”

She jabbed him in the cravat, demolishing it. “Sometimes the situation demands direct action. I refuse to sit around like some milksop miss and let others do for me what I'm perfectly capable of doing for myself—and better, I might add.”

Charles studied her tight, angry expression, his frustration growing. She had to learn to accept his help, and also to recognize that her life was about to change in significant ways. “My dear, you're going to be a duchess. Along with the obvious benefits of that position—”

“You mean marriage to you?” she interrupted, her words dripping with sarcasm.

He ignored the barb. “The benefits are matched by the responsibilities. And a certain, shall we say, code of conduct.”

“Like that of my natural father and uncles?” she asked. “Is that how dukes and duchesses should behave?”

“I hope you won't put me in the same category as that lot,” he said in a mild voice.

His response brought her up short. She hesitated, then gave him a reluctant nod. “Of course not. And I don't intend to embarrass you, at least not on purpose. But I also won't pretend to be less than who I am.”

“I wouldn't want you to, my dear. I have every confidence that you'll grow into the role and learn to conduct yourself with an appropriate degree of decorum.” He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I'll continue to do my best to guide you, of course.”

“How very decent of you. I hardly know how to thank you.”

Charles couldn't help mentally wincing. He knew he'd sounded a tad pompous.

“What I truly want from you,” she went on, jabbing that lethal finger at him again, “is for you to take me and my concerns seriously. That means helping me recover what was taken from me.”

“That's exactly what I'm trying to do. I'm sorry, Gillian, but you'll simply have to be satisfied that I know what's best, and leave this issue to me to manage as I see fit.” He dredged up a smile. “Trust me, love, everything will turn out just fine.”

She studied him with evident disappointment before giving a grim little shake of the head. Then she spun on her heel and marched toward the door. Halfway there, she stopped and turned back to him. “Do you know how many people have said that to me over the years? ‘Trust me
.
Just do what I say and everything will work out fine.'”

“Gillian—”

“Do you know who I've learned to trust over the years?” She tapped her chest. “Me. That's whom I trust to do what is right for my family. And if you can't accept that I'm more than capable of doing so, then we have a problem. A large one.”

Christ
. “Could you be more specific?”

“Very well. I'm saying that we probably don't suit.” Then she let out a bitter laugh. “Probably? No, of course we don't suit. I was a fool to think we ever did.”

Charles was in front of her before he even realized he'd moved. Her eyes widened in dismay, but she held her ground. “Let's be very clear on one thing,” he said from between clenched teeth. “We will be getting married.”

“Is that so? I take it, then, that you've changed your mind and will go with me to Alford?”

He could barely keep his jaw from dropping open. “Are you really trying to blackmail me by refusing to marry me?”

She shrugged. “I don't see it that way, but I must do as I see fit.”

“For Christ's sake, Gillian, you're an extremely intelligent young woman. For once, please put those brains to good use instead of acting like an impetuous chit.”

Her gaze flung thunderbolts at him. “Thank you for that piece of advice, sir. I'll commence doing so immediately by telling you that, regretfully, I cannot marry you.”

She turned to head for the door, but he clamped a hand on her shoulder and spun her back.

“I do not accept your refusal,” he thundered.

“And I do not accept your refusal of my refusal,” she shouted.

They'd clearly descended into farce. Charles couldn't remember the last time he'd so thoroughly lost control of his emotions. He made one more effort to throttle back his temper. “I'm sorry, Gillian, but the die is cast in that regard. After what happened between us last night, I should think that would be abundantly clear.”

Her defiant little chin ticked up another notch. “I will not be coerced into marriage, Leverton. Not by you or by anyone else. Let go of my arm, you great lout, or I'll be forced to do something dramatic.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded for a moment, before his brain lurched back into action. “If we don't get married, then something dramatic
will
happen—the complete ruination of your reputation, which already hangs by a thread. I will not stand accused—even in my own mind—of taking advantage of you.”

“I'm not an innocent, you stupid man,” she said in a tight voice. “Or have you forgotten that fact?”

“Gillian, I will not allow you to make the same mistake as your mother, or allow you to be labeled a . . .”

“A doxy?”

The ugly word she flung at him brought him up short. He took in her flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, bright with unshed tears.

What the hell was he doing?

“Good God.” Charles gently smoothed his hand down her arm. “I'm sorry, Gillian. I should be horsewhipped for talking to you in so callous a manner.”

Her gaze darted off to the side. “Yes, you should. I'll be happy to help with that, if you like.”

“Perhaps later, after we've had a chance to talk this through.”

A few moments later, her gaze returned to him. She'd regained control. “May I ask you something first?”

Her cool manner sent prickles of warning down his spine. “Of course.”

“Do you love me?” She used the same tone that one might employ to ask
do you like chess
or
did you eat the last lobster patty?

“I might ask you the same question,” he replied, stalling for time.

“I asked you first.”

Damn
. He never employed that term anymore, not after Letitia. He'd been madly in love with the bloody woman, and that reckless emotion had all but ruined his life. That was not what he wanted with Gillian. He wanted something better, but he couldn't seem to find the words to describe it.

He reached up to cup her cheek. “Sweetheart, you know how very fond I am of you. How much I want to be with you. I showed you how much last night.”

She calmly removed his hand from her face. “At least Pietro was honest with me. Charles, why the devil do you wish to marry me, anyway?”

“I simply do. Is that not enough?”

She grimaced. “That's the best you can offer?”

Apparently, it was. Gillian was right—he was stupid. He'd just never known it until now.

“When you come up with the answer,” she said, as he stood there like a great dolt, “perhaps you'll be good enough to share it with me.”

And on that blighting note, she swept from the room.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Gillian sat on her bed, tailor style, ignoring the elegant little tea tray Mrs. Peck had sent up to coax her into eating. Since she was supposed to be ill, the kind woman had prepared some delightful little ginger biscuits and a bland pudding. Unfortunately, an enormous lump had taken up residence in her stomach after her argument with Leverton. Gillian had been so rattled by their verbal brawl that she'd spent the rest of the day in her bedroom, pleading a vague digestive complaint that probably fooled no one, especially her reputed fiancé.

During their epic screaming match, even Charles had lost his famously even temperament. Ordinarily, that might have constituted quite an achievement on her part, but now it felt like a hollow victory. Her dreadful behavior had no doubt made it abundantly clear that she was the last sort of woman he should wish to take as his wife.

“And isn't that what you wanted?” she whispered to herself.

She'd always thought so, especially if it meant she could return to Sicily. No doubt Charles would now be thrilled to put her on the boat, so Gillian simply had to recover the stolen jewels and then she and Mamma could book passage back to Palermo. They could retire to a little villa outside the city. Gillian could take care of her mother, and . . . well, Mamma would find something to do.

There was just one blinding flaw in her plan. She'd discovered that she didn't want to go anywhere, at least not without Charles. The notion of life without him now struck her as so appalling that she could think of nothing better to do than hide out in her room, trying to sort out where everything had gone wrong.

So far, the answer eluded her.

Gillian slid off the bed, thoroughly sick of her own company. Until she could sort out what to do with Charles, she might as well do something about recovering her stolen property. As she'd made clear to him, she had no intention of sitting around while the thieves smuggled her jewels out of Lincolnshire. If nothing else, she could head down to the beach in the faint hope that they might make another run. If they did, she'd follow them. She'd familiarized herself with most of the paths running across the estate and would be back to the manor before anyone knew she was gone.

With a little luck, she might soon have solid evidence to present to Charles about the smuggling activities on his lands. Even better luck would yield information on where her jewels had gone.

As she rummaged in the tall cupboard for her boots, a gentle knock sounded on her bedroom door. Since it was after ten o'clock and she'd already told the maid she was going to bed early, she wondered if it was Charles, coming to apologize. Gillian let out a small snort at the notion. She suspected he was no more inclined to apologize than she was, which meant they'd reached an impasse.

Ignoring the melancholy triggered by that thought, she shoved her boots back into the cupboard and took a flying leap for the bed, scrambling under the covers.

“Come in,” she called out in what she hoped was a pathetic voice.

Lady Filby peeked in. “Hello, my dear. May I come in for a minute?”

“Of course,” Gillian said, repressing a sigh. She'd managed to fob off Mamma with her Banbury tale of an upset stomach, but the countess would not be as easy to fool.

Lady Filby walked over to the bed with a kind smile on her elegant features. “I saw the light under your door. How are you feeling, my dear?”

“I'm fine,” Gillian said, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to be sick. “I mean . . . a little better.”

Her ladyship's brows arched up. Then she glanced at the tea tray. “Have you had nothing to eat? Your mamma said you sent your dinner tray back untouched too.” She laid a hand on Gillian's forehead, then her cheek. “You don't feel feverish, but one can't be too cavalier about these sorts of things. It's always so damp along the coast.”

Gillian smiled, warmed by her concern. “I'm sure I'll be fine in the morning. I just . . .”

“Wanted to avoid my brother?” Lady Filby responded with a knowing grin.

“I suppose you heard us this morning. Things did get a bit loud.”

“Rather. I expect they heard you in the stables.”

Gillian flopped back on the mattress and dragged a pillow over her face. “How embarrassing,” she said, her voice muffled. “You must think me a terrible shrew.”

“Nonsense. I entirely sympathize with you. Charles has driven me absolutely demented on more than one occasion. I have learned, however, that retreat is generally not the best option when dealing with a man, and certainly not with my dear brother. You must stand your ground.”

Gillian edged the pillow aside. “I thought I did that.”

“Yes, for a time, but then you sounded a rather early retreat. That was a tactical mistake.” The countess regarded her with an understanding smile.

Gillian let out a heavy sigh as she sat up. “It's such a mess, and I'm not sure what to do. I'm not even sure if Charles and I should marry.”

“Of course you should. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him.”

“I find that rather hard to believe.”

She blinked when Lady Filby kicked off her shoes and climbed up onto the bed. The countess tucked her feet under her gown, settling her silk skirts and getting comfortable. From her manner, no one would ever guess she was a powerful society matron and the sister of a duke. Tonight, she was simply a very nice woman whom Gillian liked very much.

The countess took her hand. “My brother is the best of men, but he likes to get his own way. He can't help it, you know, since almost everyone defers to him. It comes with the territory.”

“The territory that includes a shipyard and a trading company, five large estates, and the mansion in London,” Gillian said dryly.

Lady Filby laughed. “I see you've been doing your homework. Yes, the title has given Charles considerable power, something he uses judiciously and to good effect. He's a much better duke than our father ever was, although he refuses to believe it. He has, however, got used to thinking that he knows best about everything. That may be true when it comes to managing crops and livestock, or working on Parliamentary concerns, but relationships with one's nearest and dearest do not flourish under such conditions.”

“I hardly think Leverton would put me in the category of nearest and dearest. Not after today, anyway.”

“I disagree, although I will admit he doesn't quite seem to know what to do with you.”

“Nobody ever does,” replied Gillian, trying not to sound gloomy about that fact. “That's why it's probably best for Mamma and me to return to Sicily. We can live quietly there, and no one will think twice about us.”

Lady Filby's eyebrows crawled up her forehead. “Really? Including the bandits who tried to kill you?”

“I took care of that problem. No one will be coming after me.”

“I don't think your grandmother agrees with that assessment, but let us leave that aside for now. Do you truly think your mother wishes to return to Sicily?”

Gillian thought she knew the answer, but the tone of Lady Filby's question gave her pause. “I don't know why she wouldn't,” Gillian finally said. “It's her home. Besides, it's not as if everyone in England has welcomed her with open arms.”

“Many have. And don't forget that her family is here. The Marburys are most eager to have your mother and your grandmother back in the fold. Besides,” Lady Filby added gently, “you can hardly think your mother will wish to leave
her
mother. After all, Lady Marbury is getting on in years.”

Gillian frowned. She hadn't really grappled with the idea of what it would be like to leave Grandmamma behind in England. Along with Mamma, they'd been their own little family for so long, as close as any three women could be.

“I think you would miss Lady Marbury a great deal,” the countess said in a quiet voice.

“Yes, I would,” Gillian whispered.

“Once you are respectably married, the gossips will lose interest in you and your mother. Truly, Gillian, there is no need for you to run back to Sicily.”

“But Sicily is my home. England isn't.”

“It could be, if you gave it half a chance. If you gave Charles half a chance.”

A funny little ache formed in the center of Gillian's chest. She had to look away from Lady Filby's knowing gaze. “I don't think he truly wants to marry me. He's just doing it because he thinks he has to.”

“Are you suggesting that my brother has acted . . . inappropriately?”

Damn, damn, damn.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her face go hot.

A gentle hand tapped her cheek. “Look at me, Gillian.”

She cracked open an eye. Since Lady Filby seemed amused rather than outraged or horrified, Gillian opened the other one.

“Have you and my brother been intimate?” the countess asked.

“I suppose you could say that.”

Lady Filby smiled. “How extraordinary. Well, you have no choice but to marry him now, I'm afraid. And I'm sure he's insisted on it, has he not?”

“He has, but I don't agree that we have no choice. It was only that one time. Well, twice, but the first time we didn't . . . you know.” She twirled a hand.

“I see. But the second time, you did. . . .” Lady Filby twirled a hand back.

“Yes.” It had been more than once over the course of the night, truth be told, although Gillian would die before she shared that little detail.

“In the most practical sense, once is enough. You might already be with child.”

Gillian almost swallowed her tongue. That had never occurred to her, which only showed how bloody stupid she was when it came to Charles. “I forgot about that.”

“My dear, are you in love with my brother?”

“What difference does that make?” Gillian had to resist the urge to flee from the embarrassing interrogation. “We all know I'd make a terrible duchess.”

“Charles does not agree, or he would not have asked you to marry him.”

“But it was all a huge mistake,” Gillian said, exasperated.

Lady Filby let out a most unladylike snort. “My brother does not make mistakes like that. He's the most cautious person I know.” Then she suddenly laughed. “Bravo for Charles. I must say, I'm quite proud of him.”

“What's there to be proud of? I'm a walking scandal, after all.”

“You are no such thing. You're a vibrant young woman with a great deal of character. As far as I'm concerned, you are just what Charles needs. You'll shake him up.”

“I doubt it. They don't call him Perfect Penley for nothing.”

“Exactly my point,” the countess said. “I think we can agree that Charles is a most disciplined man with a very even temper, is he not?”

“Well, not lately.”

“Again, bang on the mark. He
was
the most even-tempered man in London. An absolute paragon of courtesy until he met you.”

“I drive him insane,” Gillian said in a morose voice.

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“Even better. Gillian, he's acting that way because he's developed feelings for you—very strong feelings. You've broken through that hard shell he's built up over the years. No one's been able to do that since Letitia.”

“And look how well that turned out.”

Lady Filby climbed off the bed and slipped her shoes back on. “You're an altogether different and much better person than that horrible woman. Now, stop fretting. You and Charles will do splendidly together. There is not a shadow of doubt that you're exactly what he needs.”

If what he needed was someone to drive him demented, then Gillian supposed she fit the bill.

The clock on the chimney mantel sounded the late hour.

“Goodness, I shouldn't be keeping you up any longer,” the countess exclaimed. She gave Gillian a quick kiss on the cheek. “We can talk more in the morning, if you like.”

“May I ask you a question before you leave?”

“Of course.”

“Did Charles ask you to speak with me?”

Lady Filby shook her head. “Charles doesn't need me to fight his battles. I simply wished to explain why he sometimes acts the way he does. And I also wished to tell you that I look forward to calling you sister very soon.”

Gillian gave her a half smile, far from convinced that such would ever occur.

The countess was halfway to the door when she turned back. “You never answered my question. Are you, in fact, in love with my brother?”

Gillian winced, embarrassed. But it felt cowardly to avoid the truth any longer. “Unfortunately for both of us, it would appear that I am.”

Lady Filby's answering smile was both warm and understanding. “Then everything will turn out fine. I promise.”

After the door closed, Gillian flopped back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. Promises, she'd found out long ago, were made to be broken.

* * *

Gillian jolted awake, her brain struggling to identify the sound. When she heard it again, she knew what it was. Slipping out of bed, she snatched up her wrapper and dashed for the window. She started to open the sash, only to pull back when another handful of pebbles rattled against the window.

She cautiously opened it and stuck her head out. “Hush, I hear you,” she hissed to Teddy, who stood below. She glanced around the garden at the shrubbery that looked like ill-shapen beasts crouching in the shadows. “Are you alone?”

He nodded, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. Even in the dark, she could see the nervous energy vibrating through his small frame.